Wit Beyond Measure
by the stars at our fingertips
Summary: Venice Lane, a tough, cynical girl, is one of the four "lucky" winners of her district, Ravenclaw, of the dreaded Lottery, a premise to the horrific Hunger Games. All she wants to do is to find her sister, who had been separated from her. But first, she must find the courage to face the dangers and life-changing choices that lie ahead of her.


This is a dystopian mash-up of Harry Potter AND The Hunger Games.

Just letting you know before you begin to read this.

**DISCLAIMER**: Don't own. JKR and Suzanne Collins do. :)

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Hunger, danger, and war.

They mean three completely different things; sometimes they are connected, and sometimes they aren't. But now, those very words are intertwined, clinging to each other for survival. They have become synonymous with each other, its presence aching everywhere. Death is omnipresent, imminent, inescapable, and destruction lies in every nook and cranny of the crumbling remnants of the Wizarding World.

He Who Must Not Be Named has won the Second Wizarding War, the final crushing battle that obliterated all inklings of hope and determination was instilled in the Hogwarts Massacre.

All is lost.

And what could have been found is shrouded in darkness.

I stare at the dark, bold numbers on my forearm, cruelly etched into my disfigured memories with a thousand shades of pain. **VL-50-04-13. **I press my thumb to the letters and numbers for good luck, something I have been doing for the past four years. The girl to my left is trembling with her eyes squeezed shut, obvious trepidation marking her stance, and the boy on my right is staring straight ahead, but not really seeing anything.

I know for a fact that thousands upon thousands, maybe about a million, people are detained within this stadium, but there is nothing but utter silence that is only interrupted by the occasional onslaught of uneven breathing and the quiet murmurs of the rest of the spectators of the Ravenclaw population in the bleachers. I look at them, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice a tall, pale-skinned girl with fiery red hair and bright green eyes that shine like emeralds, even in this dingy, soul-sucking place, waving away at the boy sitting next to her: Amia, my best friend, my _only _friend. We make eye contact and she flashes a big, supporting smile, tapping with her finger the glassy white pebble dangling from a piece of twine around her neck, identical to the one tucked inside of my shirt. The corner of my mouth slightly quirks upwards and I manage a slight shrug in response to her smile, touching the place where the pebble coolly grazes my skin, as I gaze again at the empty stage.

The air is stale in the mental deathtrap as all stands within their roped-off sections, many looking in anticipation at the stage, which is empty, save for a pair of elaborately designed chairs.

Suddenly, a door is slammed open, jolting many out of their reveries, as a pair of black stilettos reverberating with impending doom clacks up the steps to the stage from the side. A woman with long, curly black hair with pale, unblemished skin appears in a long black gown of the night, only shooting us a supercilious glance of superiority before taking a seat next to the more ornate throne. Following her are a few Death Eaters who flock around the chairs and then the entity of darkness and rage and evil descends upon the stage in all of his terror-reaching glory.

_Voldemort_.

Even after surviving this ordeal for four years, one mere moment in range of his sinister presence seems to cease all sound, even the sound of breathing. I fight off the urge to cringe, only biting my bottom lip in apprehension. He graces us with a reptilian smile, cold and dead, as Amelie Carrow, a young, stick-thin woman, takes the stage. She whips out her wand and places its tip on her throat, amplifying her low voice.

"Welcome, Mudbloods. Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!" she addresses, her eccentric Capitol accent echoing throughout the tense atmosphere, "Now, a word from our esteemed ruler of the Wizarding World, He-Who-Knows-All, Lord Voldemort."

She gestures to the figure robed in black as he removes his hood to reveal a scarred head, slits for eyes, and an unfortunately familiar smile, seemingly misplaced in this dire situation. His empty eyes scan the hushed crowd and regard them with silent amusement at their fear, fear that he can almost smell. He draws his wand and soon, his quiet voice echoes throughout the stadium and slithers into our minds.

"Over the years, the Mudbloods have been breeding like roaches in my vacuum of power, dirtying the magical blood which we, as superior wizards and witches, have always carried with pride. In an effort to control the Mudbloods and protect my brethren, true magical lineages, we have conceived a reminder of what had happened when people with your filthy blood had tried to overthrow us: the Hunger Games. As you all know, two girls and two boys will serve as tributes for each of the four districts to bring their districts glory, wealth, and food, as an extension of our benevolence. You are here because of who you are. You have nothing to blame, not even the stars of destiny or circumstances, but yourself to possess such filth within yourselves. Happy Hunger Games."

He bows his head at us as Amelie claps with a pointed look directed towards the potential tributes in an attempt to start up applause - nobody followed through. I only continue to stare ahead. His speech changes every year, but it still holds the same message: we are powerless against the crushing might of the ruthless purebloods.

She takes the microphone and smirks at the fear, the anxiety creeping onto our faces.

"Females first!"

A large silver cauldron is summoned onstage with a quick _Accio. _Bronze and blue fire dances and flares from the cauldron, the colors of our district and my sector. A piece of parchment shoots out of the raging flames and into her spider-like fingers.

"EF-11-09-96."

Cries echo from the crowd as a small girl with wispy curls around the age of eleven or twelve, bursts into tears is being led to the stage quickly by a pair of Death Eaters. I release a little of my breath. One more calling to go, and then I will have beaten my record for surviving the Lottery.

"VL-50-4-13."

My hearing has ceased, my breathing has ceased, my vision has ceased. It cannot be. I must have heard wrong; there is no way that Carrow has called my identification number.

"VL-50-4-13? Where are you?" she says a little more loudly, her voice snappish and infused with impatience.

The people around me look at me, their expressions mixed with sadness and shock, but their obligatory looks of pity barely mask the inevitable relief glittering in their eyes. I understand those feelings; I silently had hoped they would never be directed at me. I could hear, for the first time, wails pierce the typically taut and stiff atmosphere after the drawing of the numbers. Nobody mourns for the Mudbloods, at least not publicly. Slowly lifting my gaze, I see Amia being held back by the boy next to her, his arms tightly wound around her waist to prevent her from jumping over the bleachers' walls. Tears streak down her face as she continues to sob uncontrollably, allowing her anguish, her grief, her denial to strike the very hearts of those around her.

Death Eaters swarm to my section, their intimidating presence drawing me out as I shuffle out of my section and down the lanes leading to the stage, escorted and shielded. Carrow attempts to smile but her lips are pulled back in more of what appears to be a grimace and she gestures at me to hurry. "Hurry up, child."

My body reverts to autopilot, taking control and trudging up the steps to stand next to the previously called girl as my dazed mind retreats to a desolate island of denial, shock, and terror.

DW-49-02-09, a burly boy around my age, hurriedly stomps over to the stage, accidentally knocking the microphone over and shoving Carrow, who sports a perturbed yet menacing frown. I could see her fingers lightly but noticeably brushing off the spot where he touched her. His eyes are downcast as he takes his place next to me, his cheeks wet with hidden tears. For such a figure of physical strength, his display of such emotional weakness forces a bitter taste into my mouth. Can he not contain his tears like the rest of us? Even the littlest of us has accepted her galling fate.

Last, by not least, XV-55-01-17, a tall, lanky boy, who is evidently one of the older and better off kids, casually strolls down the lane as if he's receiving an award, even though he is boxed in by Death Eaters, distasteful cockiness flitting across his lips as he hops up on stage and stands next to his fellow, terrified male.

_Oh, the irony_. His flippant attitude triggers a small, flickering flame of annoyance within me. If the situation was not so grave, I would have found myself a safe distance away from this overconfident guy, who clearly attracts nothing but trouble.

"Well, let us find out the names and ages of our unfort-_-lucky _winners of the Lottery today! Starting with the first female, EF-11-09-96,?" she initiates.

The small girl swallows her hiccups and delivers her name in a pure, angelic voice that can only be possessed by such a young child. "Evalee Fawkes, age twelve." The sight and sound of her youth sends a quiet ripple through the spectators, for we have not seen a child be drawn from the Lottery for a long while. With her doll-like appearance, she is the ideal poster girl for the cruelty and injustice of the Lottery.

I clench my fists as Carrow shushes the crowd just for me. "Venice Lane, age fifteen."

The sniveling boy stands up straighter though his eyes are still downcast. "Declan Waters, age sixteen." He feebly attempts to put a strong front, but his tremulous voice and shaking hands give his fear away.

The aloof teenager still has an idiotic grin etched upon his angular face. "Xander Vayne, age seventeen." He punches the air, heightening the audio levels as several of the spectator girls either swoon or burst into tears, clamoring for this ridiculously good-looking boy. I can barely refrain from sighing at the inappropriate display.

"SILENCE!" Carrow shrieks into the microphone and silence finds its place once again. "Let's give a hand and a final farewell for our tributes this year!"

There's a clamor of scattered applause, and I can see the lazy, slippery smile written upon Lord Voldemort's face, amused by our lack of excitement. That little fire within me burns again as I only stare straight ahead, betraying none of my emotions, stoic and stone-faced through and through. They quickly escort us off the stage and into a different part of the stadium through a rusty old door, into a holding room for the winners for their good-byes. A Death Eater gestures for us to enter the room, following us in and shutting the doors behind us.

"You will have a few minutes to say goodbye before we take you to the Capitol," the figure says. "Don't try to escape, it is futile." The Death Eater leaves the room to guard the door as several people rushed in.

I look around the room to the other tributes: Evalee is locked in her parents' protective embrace of whispered nothings and peppered kisses; Xander is surrounded by a few girls who were all over him, petting his unruly hair down and brushing off the ever-present dirt on his clothes, murmuring quiet words of devotion and supposed, misguided love; and Declan is locked in a passionate embrace with a pretty girl with a scar on her right cheek, his tears still running freely with hers.

"Venice!" Amia says, clinging to me as soon as she can. "How are you feeling? Are you okay? I can't believe this," she rambles, her eyes genuinely wide and terrified. Tears were still fresh in her eyes as they trail down her face.

I nod, brushing my hair from my eyes habitually. "I'll be okay, I promise. Tell the others that it was great knowing them."

"Don't resign to your fate already," Amia cries. "You have to come back alive."

I smile a little; no matter how much trouble I am in, I am always comforting Amia who is always more distressed about my problems. "There is no way out this time," I say quietly. "We haven't had a victor in many years; the Games are always rigged, that's no secret. But I will come home. Just be sure to watch me."

"Venice -"

"Amia, the time for foolish dreaming has long been gone. You and I knew the chances of escaping the Lottery were slim. We can't change anything now, so we just have to accept the fact that I might die. If I do, please find my sister for me and tell her I love her."

Her bottom lip quivers in heartbreaking misery. "You can't put down hope. Your sister would know that, Venice."

"Hope will put you down in the end. Promise me you'll find Pilar. That's all I want."

Amia takes my hand, reaching over to tap the pebble tied around my neck with her fingernail, a little ritual we do for good luck. "Be safe."

"Life never listens to fools."

I hug Amia one last time, inhaling the familiar scent of nutmeg, butterbeer, and rose petals swirling about her. "Do as I say, Amia, you owe me this much to find my sister."

She nods, trying her best to hold back her tears.

"Everyone out!"

The Death Eaters come and forcibly separate everybody apart, tearing away the last touches of familiarity from the tributes as they shove everybody out the door. I link fingers with Amia one last time before she is dragged away by a Death Eater. As one door closes, another one opens, this time leading straight to the train station adjacent to the stadium. We are quickly herded onto the train, a bright red train with the faded, peeling words "Hogwarts Express" embossed on the side, along with the coat arms of the district animals.

When will this ghastly nightmare end?

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**A/N**: This is a collaborative effort, and it's our first time writing together so we'd really appreciate it if you could leave a review and give us feedback!

FYI, we'll be introducing the tributes from the other districts in the next few chapters.

Please don't favourite without reviewing! =)

-C&N.


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